Memories live in Las Vegas
by Ripper101
Summary: This is a Crossover with CSI. Giles takes a short vacation in postapocalyptic times to try and work out his stress which is causing him severe headaches and meets an old friend in an unexpected place.
1. 1

The man had been driving for what seemed like hours until he pulled up thankfully in a quiet motel and booked himself a room. He smiled politely at the girl who gave him the key to his room and he unloaded his car and took his bags in. Then he spent the rest of the evening with the heels of his palms pressed tight against his eye sockets in an effort to stave off the migraines that he didn't have any more medication for.  
  
The night in Las Vegas was just as depressing as all the other nights he'd spent away from his friends- dark, lonely and unprepossessingly slow. And this was Las Vegas!  
  
He went out to get some fresh air, the remnants of that hammering pain in his head still echoing slightly. He was used to that by now; he had the practice of long association.  
  
The bar was, like the motel, small and shabby. But it wasn't quiet and for that he was grateful.  
  
"A beer, please," he signaled, relaxing into a seat at the bar.  
  
The bartender sent it over quickly and effortlessly before settling in for a chat. "English, huh? What's a guy like you doing down here? The casinos are the usual place for the tourists."  
  
"I never said I was one," Giles reasoned softly, slugging back as much as he could before needing to breathe.  
  
The bartender didn't take the hint. "Oh. So you staying here, then?"  
  
Giles sighed and looked at the man. Dark hair going gray, dark eyes with tired lines and a muscled bicep with a tattooed bleeding heart- the man was typical and who the hell was he kidding. He certainly couldn't live without human contact forever. "In a way," the Englishman said simply, "I just got here. But I lived in California for around six years; in a town called Sunnydale."  
  
"Gawd," the man intoned, gawking openly, "You from that hellhole?"  
  
For an instant Giles thought the man meant something else. "It wasn't quite as bad as all that," he grinned, "More like a typical town with it's typical atrocities."  
  
"How'd you survive? I heard there was a busload of you people who got out. Saw it on the news a couple months ago," the bartender said enthusiastically, "Man! Must have been rough."  
  
"It was," Giles agreed, "Very. I lost a lot of friends that day."  
  
The bartender silently pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses and settled in to listen.  
  
The next morning Bill got out of bed, and stretched before walking around to collect his carelessly strewn clothes off the floor. Giles lay back with a cigarette in his mouth and stared at the picture on the table. He'd left it standing upright and the picture of Willow, Buffy and Xander had 'seen' the entire proceedings of his ridiculous first night in Vegas. He vaguely decided he didn't like that; nor did he like Bill, the bartender, strolling around in front of those innocent faces in the nude. He longed to walk over and carefully flip the photo over so they wouldn't have to witness this.  
  
"You okay?" the man asked casually, buckling his belt.  
  
"Tired," Giles smiled coolly. The man deserved no more and no less.  
  
Bill shrugged ironically. "You called the shots, not me. Seemed like you needed it too."  
  
More barroom advice from someone who was paid to serve drinks and listen to drunken sob stories. Giles was through with that. "It's been stressful."  
  
"Yeah, well," Bill grinned, his face suddenly looking animated, "You get stressed out, give me a call. Be seein' ya, buddy."  
  
With that he walked out, leaving Giles to snort. A compliment in any form was welcome right now. But tonight would be a different bar; he was sure of that.  
  
The next morning he woke up with a brunette who looked older in the morning sunlight than she had in smoke-hazy air. She left without more than a "Got a cigarette?" and a "Well, thanks, darling. I'll see you soon, hmmm?"  
  
The third night, Giles went out for a walk to a chemist to buy as strong a painkiller as he could get. The migraine was back with a vengeance and even the streetlights were a cruel assault on his head. He didn't dare drive, dragging himself on foot to the nearest pharmacy.  
  
But when he walked in, he found he couldn't buy anything at all because there was a man there who was carrying a gun and wearing a cap pulled low over his face. Another quick look from half-open eyes spotted another man lying on the ground with blood pooled around him.  
  
The gun-carrier pointed the gun and told him to get on his knees now.  
  
Giles complied willingly. He hadn't come to Vegas to get killed over a petty robbery. "I don't know you; I can't see you. Get out of here and I won't be able to tell the police anything."  
  
The man shifted from foot to foot, undecided. "Yeah, right! I should kill you now, man! Huh? That'll stop you talking to the cops! I'm gonna kill you!"  
  
Giles had faced ubervamps, as his Slayer called them, and he wasn't that scared of a gun any more. In truth, Ripper had been looking for a fight in too bloody long to worry about getting shot. "Then kill me already," he snarled, standing back up, "Because my head is splitting and I've had quite enough of your ridiculous petty criminal behaviour. I need medication. So go ahead and pull the trigger."  
  
He walked past the stunned man and began hunting for painkillers, turning his back indifferently on the gunman. If the perpetrator had been a vampire he might have heard a thundering heart and smelt the fear and sweat. But the man saw nothing and so he bolted. He ran for the open door and disappeared.  
  
Giles sighed and turned. If anything, his eyes now felt like they were slowly being clawed out of his head. All he wanted was to leave and maybe slit his own throat. But there was a dead man on the floor and his conscience was up in arms.  
  
"Damned conscience," he grumbled, moving behind the counter where the telephone was. "Hello, emergency? I'd like to report that a man has been shot dead. Yes. Uh, no, I'm not sure where exactly I am. Could you? My name is Rupert Giles. Yes."  
  
He hung up finally, having answered all questions that the lady asked him. "Now I wait," he sighed. He walked out from behind the counter and sat down with his back against it, in full view from the open door and directly opposite the body. For some reason it began to remind him of Randall.  
  
The police arrived fifteen minutes later. "You the guy who called it in?" one of the uniformed figured asked professionally, "Giles or something?"  
  
Giles nodded; the pain that kept him slumped against the counter. He finally roused himself to go outside, stumbling with fatigue. He leaned against the hood of the police and wished that they would all just shut up. But he kept his mouth closed for fear he would scream. He managed to rouse himself to make a coherent statement and then stayed in his corner.  
  
Another car pulled up and a man and a woman got out in plain clothes. They turned out to be CSI people  
  
"Grissom, I'll handle the body. It looks like Beacham wants a word with you," Sara begged, walking away quickly and leaving Grissom to deal with the pompous man waddling up to them.  
  
Grissom hastily composed a professionally courteous look on his face and gazed enquiringly at Beacham. "What've you got for me tonight?" he asked quickly, getting straight to the point.  
  
"Gil Grissom! Nice to see you again," Beacham greeted enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder. Grissom smiled politely. "Anyway, you're probably hot for your crime scene right now so I'll fill you in. We got a report twenty minutes ago from some Brit that there was a robbery and a shooting. We got here, the perp was gone and our witness sitting as cool as you like against the counter. We've taken a brief statement but I'm not sure 'bout him."  
  
Beacham pointed the 'witness' out before hurrying to take a call. Grissom observed the man standing docilely against the car. He watched as the man raised his hands and dug his fingers briefly into his eyes before blinking rapidly.  
  
"Excuse me? Are you the witness who called in the report?" he asked, walking up. "Gil Grissom; Crime Scene Investigations."  
  
"Rupert Giles," Giles managed, voice hoarse as he struggled, "Look, is it possible for me to leave soon?"  
  
"Have you somewhere you have to be?" Grissom found himself asking.  
  
"Yes," Giles said dryly, seeing two of everything, "Bed."  
  
Grissom didn't grin, but he couldn't control the slight twitch of amusement. "I'll try and make this quick. What exactly did you observe?"  
  
Giles dredged up the long nights of research and exhaustion and concentrated. Of all the things in all the world he had to stumble onto this. "I didn't really see much, I regret to say. That is, I didn't see the shooting. I walked in to buy something and saw a man- Caucasian and fairly young- waving a gun around. He seemed somewhat indecisive. The victim was lying on the floor and covered in blood. That's all I saw."  
  
Grissom nodded. "Thank you. There are just a few more questions, however. Did you touch or move the body in any way? Maybe check for a pulse or something?"  
  
"No, he was dead. Any attempt to revive him would have been useless," Giles sighed, finding spots in front of his eyes.  
  
Grissom frowned. "But if you didn't check, he might have been alive. How were you to know?"  
  
And how could Giles say that between his youth and his calling he'd seen enough dead bodies to know at a glance. And besides which he'd read the man's aura automatically and there was no life force left. Fortunately or not, something else was occupying his attention.  
  
"Is something the matter, Mr. Giles?" Grissom asked curiously.  
  
Giles had screwed his eyes shut and his entire body went rigid as he clasped his head in his hands. He began to lightly bang the heels of his palms against his skull, a moan escaping as the pain escalated. Grissom began to look alarmed and grabbed at him, steadying him back against the car and calling over a uniformed officer.  
  
"Call an ambulance," the CSI operative ordered, "Mr. Giles, what's wrong?"  
  
"Migraine," Giles ground out harshly, "Went in for medication. Oh God, not now!"  
  
Grissom watched the ambulance rush their 'witness' away.  
  
Sara came out to ask his opinion about something; as well as to ask why she was investigating the crime scene alone. "Playing hooky, Grissom?" she teased.  
  
He stared at her in confusion and she backed down. "What's wrong?" she settled for.  
  
"The key witness just took off in an ambulance," Grissom sighed, "And if the pain was as bad as it seemed, he might just be in no fit condition to question tomorrow morning."  
  
He seemed to be thinking about something and then stopped. He turned determinedly and went back inside, brushing abruptly past his colleague to immerse himself in his work. 


	2. 2

"Hey, Gil," Catherine called, "I heard about that guy collapsing at the crime scene. What, did he have a heart attack or something?"  
  
"No. A migraine," Grissom explained.  
  
Greg snorted as he poured out his coffee and sat down with the rest of the CSI team. He shot Grissom a wary glance, a little afraid of those cool gray eyes. "You mean the guy was sent to the hospital because he had a headache?"  
  
"Migraines can be pretty intense," Warrick excused.  
  
"But I mean, you're outside the chemist's," Greg chuckled, "Just go get him a panadol or a painkiller. Why call the ambulance?"  
  
"According to a few of the cops standing around there, the guy was in agony," Sara revealed confidingly, "They said he was almost fainting. Grissom can tell you; he was questioning the guy at the time."  
  
"Whoa! Must have been some heavy duty questioning," Greg commented, chuckling.  
  
Grissom stared coolly at him over the top of his glasses and, as usual, that worked like a charm. Greg dried up pretty quick. "No. It seems that's what took him into the chemist's in the first place. He needed to stock up on medication." Grissom said it off hand; it wasn't confirmed.  
  
Warrick thought about that. "I don't know, man. Wouldn't you know if you were running out of pills and just stock up before they finish? Especially if you know it can get pretty nasty."  
  
Catherine was forced to agree that he had a point. "He has a point," she admitted.  
  
Grissom was of that opinion too. But he knew Giles hadn't done anything, just as he didn't know how to explain the feeling. "Are you telling me you think Giles is the perp?" he asked interestedly.  
  
Sara gurgled. "Not from what I saw. I only saw him for a few seconds, but the cops there said he spoke like someone who didn't need to rob a store for money. And he certainly didn't look like the type to kill someone. What do you think, Grissom?"  
  
He sat still for a moment caught in his own thought and then motioned with his coffee cup before beginning to leave the room. "I think you're right and wrong. Mr. Giles seemed exactly the type to kill. But not at all the type to do it for the money."  
  
At approximately the same time, Giles was coming to realization that he should never have stopped taking his medication regularly. The agony was gone and no hand- clawed or otherwise- seemed interested in removing his eyeballs from their sockets. On the up side, he could go home and he had a prescription. On the down side, he needed to go call Gil Grissom. Grissom- he was certain he'd seen the man somewhere. That chin was distinctive enough. Giles gave up on thinking too much. He went out, bought lunch and made his phone calls. And by six in the evening he was being shown into an interrogation room.  
  
"Mr. Giles?" a plump man in a dark suit walked in, an ironically cynical look on his face as if the world was going to the devil and he found it amusing. Almost as an afterthought Grissom followed. "Mr. Giles, how are you feeling?" Grissom asked politely.  
  
Giles flushed a bit. "I'm fine," he said shortly, "Thank you."  
  
"Well, that's good," Grissom said impersonally. He introduced Brass quickly and got to the point. "We just need to go over a few particulars; just to make sure the story's straight."  
  
"It is."  
  
"But you had a migraine last night," Brass put in, "That much pain and maybe you weren't thinking straight."  
  
Grissom hid his grin as Giles looked amused. "I am fairly certain I am lucid when I speak," he murmured, "Though I can see why you would want to cross-reference my statement. Be that as it may, it would save us all some time if you could believe that I know my statement to be entirely truthful and complete, pain or not."  
  
Brass looked unconvinced. "Humor us," the little man suggested amiably, leaning forward. Giles went over his story again and again, tiring of the 'amiable' questions from someone who clearly didn't believe him. "So why didn't this guy just shoot you?" Brass reasoned.  
  
"Because he was just a terrified young man," Giles snapped, "I was supposed to be scared of his gun and I wasn't! I got up, dared him to shoot me and stumbled past him to look for painkillers."  
  
Brass nodded. Grissom hadn't said a single thing in the entire interview, a rare thing for him. He usually had a few things to ask; he found one now. Perhaps it wouldn't be particularly relevant to the case, but it might clear up a few details along with satisfying his curiosity.  
  
"Last night you said you didn't touch the body because you knew the victim was already dead. Is that right?"  
  
"Yes," Giles said carefully.  
  
"How?" Grissom asked, pursing his mouth in concentration.  
  
And that was an interesting mannerism. Ethan used to use something like that once, back in London when they'd just begun. He blinked hurriedly as he realized he hadn't answered them yet. "Suffice it to say that I have seen a dead body before and I know what it looks like."  
  
"Really!" Now Brass was really interested. "You've seen a body covered in blood before? Where?"  
  
"I have seen many things," Giles sniped, too tired to keep his usual caution. And Ripper was howling. He let go partially and felt himself slip forward in his seat, green eyes glittering as broad shoulders reminded subtly of strength. Brass sat back as hypnotizing green eyes bored through his, threatening with a simple, deliberate glance of violence. "I've seen a friend in my youth die because we were a shade too 'youthful'. I have seen my lover's body laid on my bed with a broken neck. I've seen a friend give her life for her sister. I've driven a school bus out of the hell that was a little town called Sunnydale, knowing that people I cared about were dead or dying. I've seen things you can't even begin to imagine!" He regretted it as soon as he was done. How Ethan would have crowed, he winced. He sat back and wondered if he could brazen it out.  
  
"A- And where would all this experience come from?" Brass asked.  
  
"London, mostly," Giles said, hoping silently that it would be a little too far away for them to bother.  
  
Grissom looked intently at Giles. "What did you do in London?" Giles raised his eyebrows. "What profession were you in?"  
  
Giles suddenly grinned a mischievous grin. "I was working as a curator in the British Museum, actually."  
  
Brass didn't go for the bait. Grissom held his tongue but his lips quirked into the quickest of smirks.  
  
Giles stilled, lost in catching that smile because something else was coming from it- Ethan. That was Ethan's old smirk from his youth, when Ethan was really unable to help laughing at some hidden joke he'd just found. The barest twitch of the lips with a slight twist- Ethan's smile.  
  
Grissom blinked, fearful that Giles had guessed. "That's it for now, Mr. Giles. I have no further questions. Thank you for coming in."  
  
"Anything to help," Giles murmured softly, shaking his hand and pulling himself together.  
  
Brass stood up, shook hands and took a different tack. "Uh, is there any way we can reach you? You know, if we need to ask a few more questions or something."  
  
Green eyes narrowed dangerously and then he nodded. Silently he wrote down the address of the motel he was staying at and walked out, back into another Las Vegas evening. He reflected on his convalescence so far- he'd had two one-night stands in as many nights and he'd been through two punishing migraines in three days and he had witnessed a robbery. His time to recuperate looked like it was going to be cut up by more stress. And he had *so* wanted to lose his soul and self-respect in a mindless fashion!  
  
Grissom tried to concentrate on his blood splatter photographs, but his thoughts were on something entirely different. And the emotions coursing through him weren't helping. He put down his latest attempt with a muffled oath, causing Catherine to look up in surprise.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked in concern, "Something up?"  
  
"Hmmm? Oh, no! Just thinking about the case, that's all," Grissom reasoned.  
  
"You sure?" Catherine pressed, "Because you're looking more than just a little puzzled, you know."  
  
"Catherine, could you please tell Sara I was following a lead?" Grissom asked unexpectedly, throwing off his lab coat, "I need to go now."  
  
Damn the consequences of the case. The victim couldn't get much deader with a bullet hole through his chest and less than a third of his blood capacity congealed in his veins. He'd go do something about all this and bury the ghosts of bloody Christmas past and oh look! He was beginning to talk like Ethan again! Oh happy day! He slammed into his car and drove out with a squeal of tires, not even noticing Sara and Nick gazing at him with their mouths open.  
  
"Think he's finally had enough and lost it?" Nick ventured.  
  
Sara shook her head. "Not Grissom. Maybe there's a lead I don't know about. But if he's left me to finish analyzing those blood splatter photos all by myself I will kill him when I see him again and then I'll leave someone else to measure his blood splatter."  
  
"Wow, you're cruel," Nick joked, blue eyes teasing as he followed her inside.  
  
Giles was in the middle of getting dressed to go out on one of his usual nightly jaunts. He did up the last few buttons of his shirt and then went to answer the furious thumping on his door. "Just my luck it'll be someone come to bloody arrest me," he grumbled under his breath as he tore the door open.  
  
Grissom gave one of his thin-lipped, humorless smiles. "Hello, Ripper. How nice to see you again!" 


	3. 3

Giles blinked. Gil Grissom? And he knew about Ripper! "Uh, M- Mr. Grissom," he stuttered, retreating a little as Grissom strolled casually into the room. "What- what can I do for you?"  
  
"Oh, come on, Ripper," Grissom smiled, "That the best you can come up with? Not even a 'what the fuck are you doing here'? I thought you were the rebel for life. I have to say I'm amazed to see you even looking respectable!"  
  
Giles blinked and then took a closer look. What he saw made his jaw drop. "Gil! Of all the wondrous things- that's right! You came down to London that summer and Ethan and I-"  
  
"Took me in," Grissom finished, "Yes. Glad you remember me. It took me a while to recognize you too, I must say. You've changed."  
  
Giles looked amused. "I've aged, Gil. It happens to the best of us. But how are you? No, wait! Don't sit down. Let me take you out and buy you a drink. We can talk there."  
  
Gil drove and unfortunately pulled up at the first smoky joint that Giles had visited on his first night out in Vegas. Giles looked at it and furiously shook his head. "Uh, no, luv! Not there."  
  
"Shagged the barman so soon?" Grissom grinned. Giles chuckled evilly.  
  
They drove to another one and stepped inside. A few eyes followed them but they ignored them, content to relax into a seat with alcohol and talk over all the million and one things that they wanted to know.  
  
"So what are you doing here?" Grissom asked, "I don't flatter myself it's to look me up."  
  
"Unfortunately no," Giles apologized, "I'm down for what you Americans call 'some R & R'. Doctor's orders, may I add; he feels the migraines are getting worse due to exhaustion."  
  
"The sins of a misspent life! Do you still have that little place in London?" Grissom asked eagerly, looking more animated than anyone else had ever seen him, "Tell me you finally sold that rat trap!"  
  
Giles pondered how to answer that one. "Gil, I don't actually misspend my life any more. A little over two summers after you left, I left. I went back to the Watcher's Council. I- I've actually been in California on active duty for the past seven years."  
  
Grissom went speechless, staring with incredulous gray eyes at this suddenly different man. "Wow!" he commented inadequately, "I had no idea."  
  
Giles shrugged and went to get a refill. Grissom sat lost in thought for a while, feeling a little silly as certain pretty bubbles burst around him. He'd always imagined those two would live and die in that little dinghy apartment, bodies entwined in the night, minds always no more than a thought apart. He'd remembered that London summer as an enchanted garden and now here was Giles telling him that all of that was gone long ago. Somehow he felt bereft.  
  
"It is a shock, I suppose," Giles agreed, sliding back into his seat. "But I had to go; I began to feel suffocated by all that freedom. A few other things happened that were probably a catalyst for the return of my sanity. The group had already broken up by then too."  
  
"I always thought your group would last forever," Grissom said quietly, "You seemed so close. Though that was mostly the magic. Do you still practice?"  
  
Giles snorted and shook his head. "Not for about twenty years now. Well, a few small castings in the past couple of years and one relatively big one when my Slayer's soul was being poisoned by some evil bitch. But apart from that, no magic."  
  
"I'm sure there were reasons." Grissom couldn't help but wonder if he should ask. This Giles looked kindly enough. But the Ripper he remembered could pick a fight because of one wrong question. Luckily, he'd been able to hold his own back then. Now he was in no fit shape for that. "You've stayed fit. I assume that means your Slayer is alive," he said.  
  
Giles nodded, unconscious of the pride that lit his eyes. "Buffy Summers. She's perhaps the best Slayer in a long time. What am I saying, she is the best Slayer! We just closed a hellmouth under her guidance!"  
  
"I heard about that," Grissom gasped, leaning forward avidly, "I felt the force, you see, the ripples of dark energy that it gave out. It was quite impressive! I was out sick for two days with that! And this is under your Slayer, huh? So the Council must be pretty darn proud of you."  
  
Again, that cautious look on the other man's face: "The Council got blown up, with everyone inside it. I am the Council, now. Well, me, an ex-Watcher in Los Angeles, two retired Watchers in Africa and a parcel of trainees. But that's all that's left. All their resources, all their books- all gone."  
  
Grissom groaned, burying his head at the thought. "The books too? Have you English no respect for such delicate things? Putting them in exploding buildings is not what you do to valuable books!"  
  
Giles laughed. "You remind me of Xander," he joked, "That's something like what he would have said if he liked books. But not any more of course; not since he lost his fiancée."  
  
Grissom sighed and finished his drink, standing up determinedly. "Well, it seems there is a lot to hear and I have a feeling it won't be done in one night. Come on, we're going back to your room."  
  
"Why?" Giles asked in confusion, "We just got here."  
  
"Yes," Grissom agreed dryly, "but I really don't want to give you a welcome fuck in the middle of this place."  
  
Giles laughed again, something he felt like he'd hadn't done in so long he'd forgotten how. "Well, at least you're not inebriated this once. Last time you said that, Ethan and I had just come home to find you drunk on Pink Floyd and cheap whiskey."  
  
"Yes, I remember that," Grissom grinned, "I wasn't that drunk. Ethan had a very clever tongue."  
  
"Yes, he did," Giles said softly, lost in reflection for a moment.  
  
Grissom for his part was content to stand and memorize every line on Giles' face in silence; and there were plenty to memorize. Yes, Ethan had had a clever tongue. But Ripper was the only one who had ever made him scream, and the only one who he would ever allow to do so again.  
  
"Ripper, are we standing here all night?" he finally asked, all innocent confusion. It was a look Ripper had taught him and it was one he still practiced with great success. It had worked on the Bobbies back then and on his fellow CSI operatives now.  
  
Giles shook his head and followed Grissom out, noting the slight emergence of body fat, not sure if he was upset by that. Grissom had never been slim; his body was rather more substantial. But as a nervy young American in the London of the 1970s, on the run from obscurity and not knowing what to do, Gil's body had had hardness to it that even Ripper hadn't had; a solid feel of muscle and bone. Now it was softer with age and the very obscurity it seemed he'd gone back to.  
  
The car ride was silent, both lost in comparing their past with their present. Even walking into the room and stepping into a gentle embrace was soundlessly painful. Both had too much in their heads and they wanted so much to go back to their enchanted summer, a time when they were invincible with their friends and their lovers and their magic.  
  
The touch of lips on lips was the briefest brush of skin, but Giles lost it, feeling Ripper respond to the smell of this man in his arms. Because Gil Grissom smelt much like he used to smell back then- power and need and masculinity and knowledge. The last was not meant to be a major turn-on but on this man it could wreak havoc.  
  
Giles grabbed the back of Grissom's head, pulling him in for something longer and deeper. His tongue licked along the softness of the lower lip, not entering the warm mouth even when it opened for him. He teased Gil, sliding his tongue to the very corners before circling back. Grissom reacted in a way he thought he had left behind. His hand gripped Ripper's neck, squeezing harshly until he captured that tantalizing tongue in his mouth and sucked at it, biting down.  
  
Giles smiled against Grissom's mouth, rejoicing in the hammering in his veins. He could hear his blood thrum and his heart thunder and his hands reached up to the front of Grissom's t-shirt, raking hard down the nubs of the man's nipples. Grissom gasped and bit down again.  
  
"That the best you can do?" Giles mumbled gently, fingers twisting and rubbing.  
  
Grissom growled and bit down hard enough to draw blood. A sharp pain in Giles' mouth and both were licking away blood, and feeling the power surge once more.  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Giles had maneuvered them both to the bed, tossing Grissom onto his back. He knelt down and removed the man's shoes and socks, hands dexterously moving higher to remove his pants as well. The t-shirt came off and finally there was only flesh. And still on his knees, he pushed the pale thighs apart, smiling at what he found.  
  
"They're still there," he grinned, looking up at smoky gray eyes.  
  
Grissom smirked back at him. "You thought I'd get rid of them?" he asked tellingly.  
  
One slim calloused finger began to trace the complicated pattern of runes drawn on the soft skin, stark white against the paleness. Because Grissom was as pale as Giles was, neither being sun lovers. Their time from habit and association was the night they had once rejoiced in, drawing these marks in a deserted park under a full moon. The runes had burned and itched for days but the magic that night had been worth it.  
  
"You know, you always promised you would kiss it better but you never did," Grissom remarked to the ceiling, hoping Giles wouldn't see the way he almost couldn't breath because of the influx of long forgotten passion and magic. It drugged his mind, made him remember things.  
  
Giles was feeling it too; the gentle touch of his lips on the white-lined skin sent it shimmering over them both. He gave in, diving to kiss and lick and scratch. He left Grissom's white thigh for a precious few seconds while he rummaged in a bag and pulled out a small dagger. Grissom saw it and bit down on his wrist.  
  
Giles settled them better on the bed. "No," he whispered, tugging Grissom's hand away from his mouth, "I need to hear you scream. You understand?"  
  
"Yes," came an equally soft reply. Gray eyes and green eyes stared brokenly at each other and the dagger for a long minute, feeling the seconds tick by with every fearful heartbeat. And then skin accidentally brushed the runes and Grissom arched helplessly, back bowed by the current of tension tightening his spine and forcing the blood to his groin.  
  
Ripper came out to play, a bitten tongue still tasting of blood pushed its way inside his mouth as Giles undressed, teeth nipping around the soft lips under his. Hands assisted him in hurriedly shedding his garments, broad hands with a slight taint of power humming gently under the skin. Giles started as Grissom laid his palms flat against his nipples and began to pulse magic through them.  
  
"Shit! You tease," Giles growled, arming himself with the dagger and kneeling with a wolfish smile. "But I'm going to make you howl for it."  
  
Once the knife had been dedicated, Giles began his task. Grissom did howl that night as Giles took him roughly, blood still glistening on their bodies. 


	4. 4

Gil Grissom stalked hurriedly into his office a little too late to go unnoticed. Catherine caught up with him as he walked his way from testing room to testing room, stopping by to harangue Greg to get him his gunpowder results. 

"Hey Gil, where've you been? Sara's been looking for you. I think she just found something," Catherine said hurriedly, trying very hard not to stare openly at the glittering gray eyes uncovered by glasses.

"Thank you, Catherine. And if you're quite done with my eyes may I take them with me to go find her?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

The blond blushed for no reason she could think of and got on with her own running around. Grissom's lips twisted into a characteristic half-smile before smoothing back out again. His cuts were still sore but the power! Dear god, the power! It was still pounding through him from last night!

"Grissom," Sara called, "You finally showed up! And why the hell did you leave me with those blood splatters all by myself on top of everything else I was handling? God, I could kill you for that."

Grissom smiled as if condescendingly amused at the thought.

Sara started back. "Oh-kay! Um, I found something. And for some reason I can't remember what it was." Those gray eyes were beginning to glitter, to fluctuate between gray and silver and were they really dancing in all those swirling mists?

"Sara?" Grissom asked, knowing exactly what it was but looking concerned and irritated, just like he would have last week before all this happened to remind him.

She snapped out of it and shook her dark head in a daze. "Huh? Oh, yeah! We found the tape from the security camera. We got the guy!"

"Well, let me have a look at it," Grissom said briskly, "We have an ID yet?"

"George Frowlan," Sara informed him, "He's had a few petty charges. But he was charged with assault with a firearm a couple of years ago. Only thing was they couldn't prove it so he walked. But we got him on tape this time."

Grissom and Sara watched the tape being replayed and Grissom's lips twitched again as he saw Giles got off the ground and ticked the guy off. He still looked like he was in a lot of pain though.

"Grissom? You listening to me?" Sara asked, sharing a look with Nick as they tried to plan out their strategy.

"Yes. Sounds fine; I'll call Brass and tell him to get us the warrant," Grissom agreed, walking off again with his eyes fixed on the ground under his feet. If he concentrated hard enough, it was almost like he was staying in the same place and the ground was moving. He ended up bumping into some poor lab tech carrying too many files.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, "Here! Let me help you. I'm sorry; I didn't see you. Are you okay?" The frazzled woman shot him a quick smile and took off again. He shook his head after her and went off to get his job done.

That night, he lay in the motel bed while Giles played gently with his body. He felt a fingertip tickle over a soft spot no one else, except perhaps Ethan, had ever found and he chuckled. "Was it always this way?" he murmured.

"No," Giles sighed, warm breath washing over Grissom's skin, "We were never this still. At least, I don't think we were. But I could be prejudiced."

"You know, I'm getting that you don't really like to think about the old days," Grissom questioned, head pillowed on the arm behind his head, "Why is that?"

Giles stopped, looking at his hands on Grissom's hips. Fragile bones really, he could break them with those hands. He pulled himself up and planted one last lingering kiss on the man's lips before settling down to talk. "You're right. I don't like remembering those days. There are two stages of my life- Ripper and Rupert Giles. You saw Ripper, the punk, the rebel. You never saw Rupert Giles stammer, or polish his glasses furiously, or wear tweed. I am both now. I still polish my glasses when I'm at a loss for words, and I still don't know how to respond to a respectable woman flirting with me. Yet I've killed and known bloody-mindedness and I still lash out at people who push me around." He stopped.

"That doesn't answer my question," Grissom said gently.

"It's a part of it. What you saw was the Ripper stage. I was free, white and twenty-one- or rather eighteen. I was eighteen when I ran away, nineteen when I met Ethan and twenty when you saw the group at the peak of its powers. Two years later Randall was dead and I knew it was my fault. The death affected Ethan too. He became obsessive, hard. The rest scattered, scared out of their wits."

"So you went back to the Council?" Grissom frowned. "I thought you said they were pricks who hid behind their desks and depended on young girls to fight their battles."

"They were. But they were familiar," Giles sighed. He looked down expressively, "They were safe, Gil, as opposed to what I saw myself becoming. I needed to feel I could control the violence, the rage. And I think I matured a lot in the Council. At all events, it took me to Buffy when her first Watcher died."

"I'm sorry." Grissom didn't raise his voice more than a murmur, hands tracing gentle sigils in the air over Giles body.

The Englishman laughed. "I'm not! Merrick was an American Watcher, a legend in his own right. But he was old; the Council should never have sent him out. He died saving Buffy's life. If anything, I salute him for showing her what true dedication was. When I think of the life that child has led! And now she's a very confused and very independent woman who doesn't need me in her life."

Grissom didn't ask any more questions. He heard the raw, aching pain that lay buried under the soft words. When had life become so painfully old? Everything went in circles now; everything was connected to everything else. And all of it hurt.

But not this. He bent over, head bowing over Giles' body, worshipping and soothing with lips and tongue. The Watcher leaned back with a sigh and let his barriers down. Grissom began to use a few tricks that he hadn't thought he'd ever use again.

He leaned over and whispered something in Giles' ear, an enchantment for visions. But a moment after Giles' eyes widened in sheer dread, Grissom knew he had probably gotten rusty on his pronunciation- Giles turned green and glared at him.

Grissom couldn't help it. He collapsed and burst out laughing, tears streaming down his face and his sides in stitches because Giles looked so funny. Giles himself couldn't help grinning ruefully. As he looked at Grissom, a laugh bubbled somewhere in his throat and he let out a giggle. The giggle turned to a chuckle and then he was laughing out loud as well. They held each other until the humor subsided and only the occasional giggle came unbidden.

"Thank you, Gil," Giles said ironically, "I've always thought green was my color."

Grissom chuckled again, "Well, it does bring out your eyes, Ripper."

Giles whacked him gently on the head and reversed the spell, wrapping Grissom in his arms and firmly ordering him to go to sleep before either of them turned into something else. Grissom obeyed amiably, snuggling down with his back barely touching Giles' chest but close enough to feel his presence wash over him.

The night seemed a particularly restful one that time.


End file.
